


Communications with Spirits and Angels

by HSavinien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Child Death, Demons, Flirting, Ghosts, Historical, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Other, seances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: The ton's latest fad is séances, and two beings – who haven't met in several years – are invited!





	Communications with Spirits and Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/gifts).



> Happy holidays! I hope this fulfills your desires, Nny. Title paraphrased from Elizabeth Barton, “I hold communications with saints and angels, even with Satan himself.”

“Of course, I was an indifferent horseman before I lost the leg,” Crowley said, gesturing with charming self-effacement to the truncated appendage. “The replacement gets me from here to there admirably, though the injury put paid to my military career, I fear.” Miss Botham giggled, hiding her cheeks behind her fan. The elaborately-carved ebony peg that replaced the limb from the knee down drew the eye away from the smoked spectacles, which were generally understood to protect eyes damaged in the self-same explosion. Crowley had spent time fostering the impression that the spectacles were a sore point. So, polite company ignored them and impolite company could be dealt with in more direct, savage terms.  
  
“We shall miss you at the riding party,” Lady Botham declared, employing her own fan in the more conventional way. “Perhaps you might grace our séance on Friday instead. The medium is a favorite of the Regent himself and is said to be quite immersed in the Secrets of the Spirits.”  
  
Crowley, by hard-won practice, did not display even a hint of skepticism. “Of course. What a diverting notion! I would not miss the opportunity.” _-to make some mischief that would frighten a charlatan and confuse some rich fools,_ the rest of the thought continued. “Who else will be in attendance?”  
  
Lady Botham listed off a dozen names, some Crowley recognized, some not, then Miss Botham added, “Oh, and Mama remember that donnish religious gentleman, Mr LaPrize.” She broke off at Crowley's sputter around a swallow of punch.  
  
“Do you know him, Mr Crowley?” Both Bothams fluttered in sudden distress. Lady Botham said, “He is not someone improper, is he? With that...Italian-sounding name, I was afraid he might be some sort of Papist.”  
  
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Crowley said, mopping gingerly at what had been a spotlessly creamy cravat a few moments ago. “Just an old acquaintance. I had not thought him returned to London. Surprised to hear the name.” With a few more reassurances, Lady Botham consented to be comforted and steered into conversation with a new partner.  
  
Crowley retired, ostensibly to repair the cravat damage, then slipped out the back instead and headed for home. The heightened color in normally cool cheeks could only be attributed to the press of the assembly, certainly not to the unexpected sound of a familiar pseudonym.  
  
***  
  
Mr Fell LaPrize had no known address, a fact conveniently forgotten by society every time the name entered speculation. Letters, cards, scholarly journals, and invitations addressed to that name were collected daily from the Royal Post Office, and since the person in question appeared regularly and answered correspondence with reasonable promptness, it caused little damage to the eccentric's persona. In a London mad for mysticism, mediums, magic, and a touch of pagan rites, LaPrize had attended a number of séance parties. Aziraphale sighed at the latest card from Lady Botham and tucked it back into an already-full engagement book.  
  
“Any idea when this assignment will be finished?” the angel asked the mirror behind the flickering wax candle.  
  
The face within gazed at Aziraphale blankly. “When the false prophets have ceased their wickedness.”  
  
“Right, of course,” Aziraphale murmured. “Was there anything else?”  
  
Raphael's head cocked. “Your report on the actions of the Enemy's minions.”  
  
Aziraphale fidgeted. “My...thwarting continues to hold back the wiles and encouragement of depravity on...multiple fronts.”  
  
“Specifically?”  
  
“Er, bear-baiting has dropped considerably, as has the carrying of zibellinos, and the sale of indulgences-”  
  
Raphael's face screwed up a little. “Was not that some time ago? I am sure I remember that appearing in an end-of-decade report back-”  
  
“Oh no! Tying up some significant loose ends,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “Very complicated, I am afraid, very technical, but important to stamp it out completely. Now, I fear I have an engagement with the latest false prophet and if I do not begin preparations now, I shall be late.”  
  
Raphael faded, still looking suspicious, and Aziraphale blew the candle out hurriedly. The fact that a certain demon and Heaven's representative in London had not crossed paths in several years was something that was not really relevant. Not at all.  
  
Aziraphale dressed with no more fastidiousness than usual, and certainly did not spend more than a minute contemplating a troublesome cravat in the full-length mirror that had not existed in the rooms above the bookshop until this afternoon. Once satisfied, with a last buff of already-polished nails, Aziraphale straightened the 'By Appointment Only' sign on the bookshop door and stepped out into the yellowish London fog. (That was a problem, the smoke and impurities were bad for the books. Something would have to be done.)  
  
***  
  
Aziraphale arrived precisely five minutes early. The medium was already ensconced in the parlor out of reach, so the angel consented to a small glass of lemonade and a slice of cake to pass the time.  
  
The lady of the house floated into the sitting room in what was probably her most diaphanous, “mystical”-looking gown, shivering rows of fringe dangling from every seam and furbelow. “Mr LaPrize, how good of you to come,” she proclaimed. In sepulchral tones she added, “I understand you to have a particular interest in the rending of the Veil Between the Worlds.”  
  
“Er yes, yes of course,” Aziraphale agreed. “I wonder, could you tell me, I had heard an...acquaintance of mine was in Town for the Season and might be attending, a Mr Crowley.”  
  
“Oh, but so he promised,” Lady Botham said, much more cheerily. “He remarked upon your name as well. How fortunate for me, to be able to reunite two old friends at one of my little events. Surely,” she remembered her setting and resumed her mystical tones, “surely it can be naught but the blessing of the Spirits.”  
  
“Perforce it must,” Aziraphale agreed weakly.  
  
Lady Botham sighed, hands clasped before her in clear satisfaction. “Now I hope you shall excuse me,” she declared. “I must see to the new arrivals.”  
  
Aziraphale swallowed the cake, which seemed suddenly dry, then washed it down with a too-large gulp of lemonade and was sputtering into a handkerchief when Crowley sauntered in. The demon was young and dark this decade and dressed in an impeccable black and fawn evening costume that cut off suddenly at the right knee. That was...alarming. Aziraphale had not thought of the demon taking harm with any kind of pleasure for some centuries. Aziraphale dithered and saw Crowley notice it.  
  
“LaPrize,” Crowley said, nodding. “I had heard you were in Town.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “When did you return? From the Continent, was it not?”  
  
“The War, you know,” Crowley muttered.  
  
“Er, gracious. So sorry.”  
  
“What are you doing at an occasion like this?” Crowley asked. “It does not seem your usual sort of haunt.”  
  
“Work,” Aziraphale said, polishing distractedly at a coat button.  
  
On the hostess's signal, the whole party trooped into the parlor in a noisy mess, then sorted itself into chairs. The gaslights had been turned low and thick draperies shrouded the windows, boxing them in with the heavy scent of incense. Crowley sat next to Aziraphale and murmured, “What variety of charlatan have we here tonight? A table-knocker? A manifester?”  
  
“I believe the young lady brings forth voices from the air,” Aziraphale muttered back. “Wicked flim-flammery and nonsense, of course. Should you like to uncover whatever confederate she has or shall I?”  
  
“Oh, so _that_ is the task they set you to,” Crowley said. “No, I shall leave you to it and amuse myself with the other guests.”  
  
A low female voice cut through the murmuring of their fellow guests like a horn-call, a wordless call of two or three tones, wavering in an eerie tremolo. Both of them jerked apart abruptly, though Crowley had turned enough to keep Aziraphale in view, albeit peripherally. The angel looked tired and distracted, with lines creasing the high forehead and shadows under eyes that ought never to need sleep. Aziraphale closed both eyes and bent over clasped hands, mouth moving barely perceptibly.  
  
The woman broke off her cry, emerging from behind one of the curtains in a blue gown, and proclaimed, “I, Mistress Mariora, have come to guide your words to the Spirits and convey back their replies as best as their weak voices can travel. If you have need of the counsel of those who have gone Beyond and some true metal to strengthen the connection, I shall do what I can to ease your hearts.”  
  
“Brazen,” Crowley said softly. “Do not they usually wait a moment before bringing silver and gold into the equation?”  
  
“Quite businesslike,” Aziraphale murmured without changing posture, “Now do be still, I have yet to discover where her partner is hid.”  
  
Mistress Mariora, pocketing a guinea, made low comforting noises to a trembling woman in black crepe, then drifted to the chair set in the centre of the room. “Let me see if I can call my guide to us, to bear your words to the babe who even now rests in the arms of the angels,” she called in a carrying way. Seating herself, she closed her eyes, then slowly tipped back, going limp as her head lolled.  
  
When an entirely different voice, masculine and higher-pitched, rang out of midair, the human inhabitants of the room were not the only ones who startled and looked around in alarm. The accent was not English, nor anything in particular that Crowley could place, but the words were clearly enunciated and comprehensible.  
  
“Who speaks, what friend calls me?”  
  
“Mariora,” the swooning medium croaked.  
  
“What will you, my friend?”  
  
“Knowledge of a child,” she said.  
  
“Tell me of its particulars and I shall it summon to my side.”  
  
The woman in mourning, shaking violently now, sobbed out some details of her son's name and death and appearance.  
  
The disembodied voice subsided to a hum, and whisperings broke out between many of the people there. One gentleman had gone faint and needed reviving with _sal volatile._ Crowley prodded Aziraphale violently in the ribs, hissing, “That is no trick of mine! She has the actual gift, with no falsehood about it.”  
  
Aziraphale agreed, “I see it, do not you poke at me! That is a true ghostly familiar, which means it is none of my call to expose a ruse, as I thought was perpetrated. Shush and we shall speak with her after.”  
  
***  
  
Whatever the spirit was that the medium had summoned, it seemed content to pass on vague, pleasant messages. The medium swooned, communicated the next desired visitor, occasionally trembled violently (making the gas flicker again), and roused herself to collect payment from each petitioner.  
  
Aziraphale and Crowley fidgeted beside each other in their chairs, Crowley growing tenser as Aziraphale frowned deeper.  
  
“Why did they send you here if she is a true medium?” Crowley muttered at last. “That is clearly some spirit, though it smells of neither Above or Below.”  
  
“I do not know,” Aziraphale said, voice tight and hands wringing. “It may be they did not expect me to find any true powers, only charlatans.”  
  
“Well, what are we to do with her then?” Crowley demanded.  
  
Aziraphale turned away from the spectacle to focus on the demon. “We?”  
  
Crowley became suddenly interested in the patterns in the fashionable green wallpaper. “If you prefer that I should make my own entertainment, I can of course oblige.”  
  
“Oh...no, of course not. Perforce you must stay close, that I may foil your wiles more effectively, and I would not rob you of the chance to satisfy your curiosity.” The angel nodded, absorbed likewise in the weave of the Turkish rug beneath their chairs.  
  
“Any idea what to do until she finishes?”  
  
“Wait, I suppose.” Aziraphale shrugged, leaned back and fixed upon the scene before them once more.  
  
The séance proceeded upon much the same lines for some hours. Alarming nature of the exercise aside, it became almost humdrum to any but the direct participants: a lady or gentleman approached, gave the details of the deceased with whom they desired to commune, and the spirit hummed for a moment, then returned with a message. Lord Leyton, upon the receipt of a paean of love from his mother – passed when he was a boy – quite burst into tears and had to be led away by friends, who pressed coin upon the medium.  
  
“An enterprising human to be sure,” Crowley murmured. “She has sunk quite the deep well with this supernatural companion to aid her.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded glumly, watching the woman secret the payment into some pocket hidden among her skirts.  
  
Finally, after a farewell message purportedly from the soul of a Mr Wilberforce Ketterling that occasioned a swoon from the sister thereof, the medium rose, staggering.  
  
“My dear friend,” she called. “I fear my poor mortal frame can sustain our connection no longer this eve. Will you go and return to me another night to bring comfort and ease the hearts of those left behind in this world?”  
  
“And thus, she advertises her next séance,” Crowley whispered. “I am impressed!”  
  
Aziraphale sighed. “It is time we removed ourselves if we are to catch her 'round the back of the house. Do come along, dear boy.”  
  
***  
  
The housemaid failed to notice them slipping in the servant's entrance thanks to a convenient miracle, and they let themselves in to the retiring room where Mistress Mariora was tucking into a slice of mutton pie and a cup of tea.  
  
She peered up at them, clearly tired, but curious. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”  
  
“Look,” Crowley said. “We both have the power to know that it was a real spirit you called up, but what is it? It tastes of neither Hell nor- er.”  
  
“Nor Heaven,” Aziraphale finished. “I am charged with the discouragement of charlatans, which you seem not to be. I mean to offer you no trouble if you do not defraud the people for whom you summon. Nor if you do not draw upon Hellish powers to do so.”  
  
“Which she does not,” Crowley snapped. “As I have told you.”  
  
The woman looked them both over, looking far more earthly and frank than she had the past few hours. “Right,” she said. “I can feel it on the both of you, so if you shall not muck up my business, I shan't pry into yours. Madge Potts.” She offered a hand to Aziraphale, who shook it automatically.  
  
“Aziraphale.”  
  
“Crowley,” the demon said, and shook her hand as well, noting some workwoman-like callouses and a firm grip.  
  
“I am only part-time in the mediuming business, but I come by the gift honestly by my mother. My friend is an ancient spirit from back in the Saxon days who takes comfort in conversation and has a fondness for praise. I tell the lords and ladies at times that he is an ancient druid if they seem in need of impressing. He likes their thanks and the chance to be heard by more than myself and the other few Sensitives.”  
  
“That seems well enough,” Crowley admitted.  
  
“And the messages from the deceased?” Aziraphale asked, frowning.  
  
Madge shrugged. “That is a bit more a fib. The poor bereaved do not desire true communications from their lost loved ones, but reassurances and love. Most ghosts pass to their final reckoning in moments, and I have no power to call across the vast distances to Heaven or Hell. And even if they had not, no one who really knew their parent to be a cross, scolding person in life wishes to have a repeat of the acrimony after their death.”  
  
“So, white lies and kindness,” Crowley summed up.  
  
“Well paid,” Aziraphale said, frowning.  
  
“But overall, an enterprise of no particular great wickedness or virtue,” Crowley added. “It seems none of either of our affairs.”  
  
Aziraphale slumped a little. “It seems so. Well, we shall not trespass farther upon your time.”  
  
Crowley sighed. “Good day.” Grabbing Aziraphale by the arm, the demon walked them both out of doors and steered them toward St James's Park.  
  
***  
  
“Well,” Aziraphale said, once they were pacing along one of the less-popular paths. “I do not know what report I shall make to my superiors, but that is my own trouble to consider.”  
  
“That she is merely human, not meddling with any denizens of Below, and not prophesying anything in particular, nor perpetrating much greater a sin than any well-wisher offering condolences at a funeral,” Crowley suggested.  
  
“I suppose. It still seems like a bit of fraud.”  
  
“Maybe. You still claim to be a seller of books, I believe, though I do not recall you doing much of it the past centuries. In any case, her séance brought us back into each other’s orbit, which is useful.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded agreement. “To be sure. I was running out of wiles to report thwarted to Up There. It is such a bother to have to go out and search for them, you see.”  
  
Crowley grinned. “So you have missed my company.”  
  
The angel's complexion did not show a blush, but nevertheless, Crowley felt a twitch of warmth where their hands brushed together. “I could not deny it, I fear, without putting myself to the lie.”  
  
“Which you have certainly never done,” Crowley said ironically. But it sparked an answering warmth within the demon's breast. Aziraphale had admitted it, a rare and precious thing. “I have felt the want of a familiar face at times and everyone Down There is quite tedious.” That was a mild way to put it. The war had been unconscionably unpleasant and Crowley had very much wished the angel's company.  
  
The angel smiled. “Perhaps you could join me for supper and conversation? I fear I eat unfashionably early.”  
  
“As long as there is a decent vintage,” Crowley allowed. “I should be delighted.”  
  
Aziraphale slipped an arm through Crowley’s. “To my club, then. I should like to hear what you have been up to these past few decades.”  
  
Crowley, quite charmed into silence, patted Aziraphale's arm and followed the angel into a more companionable future.


End file.
